


The Fire Inside

by ajie_flu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angel/Demon Sex, Castiel's Grace, Demon Dean, Demon Dean Winchester, Emotional, Eventual Smut, Feels, Flashbacks, M/M, Rough Sex, Shameless Smut, Short & Sweet, Smut, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-14 21:54:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2204433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajie_flu/pseuds/ajie_flu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Supernatural AU (or is it?) set soon after the end of season 9. The majority of the first chapter is the actual scene from the episode, word for word, but then it goes into the AU and the mess that is now Castiel and Dean Winchester.</p><p>The Dean that Castiel knew is dead, consumed by the darkness of his own soul and the First Blade after Metatron killed him. Castiel rejoices when he discovers that Dean is alive, that Metatron lied, but is soon horrified when he learns what has actually happened to Dean instead. Castiel hopelessly vies to get through to Dean (or what's left of him), if not only to finally show Dean how much he really cares for him.</p><p>DESTIEL BECOMES CANNON</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Well played, Castiel,” sounds Metatron, appearing in front of his desk, behind which Castiel was seated in the chair. Castiel looks up at him with confident eyes, continuing to patiently wait for his turn to speak, to end Metatron’s reign once and for all. Cas leans back in the chair, waiting for him to end his entrance monologue. “Obviously you and Gadreel managed to turn a few dead-enders against me.”

“Gadreel is dead,” Castiel states simply.

Metatron sighs, not bothering to hide the look of relief on his smug face. “So Gadreel ‘bites the dust’.” His eyes wander to the floor, where the Angel Tablet lay crumbled, its broken pieces and dust heaped in a pile by Cas’ feet. Metatron remarks, his voice now rushed and accusatory, “So now the Angel Tablet—the most powerful instrument in the history of the universe—is in pieces! And for what again?” He gestures at the remains and Cas looks at them, as if for the first time, though no emotion crosses his tired face.

“Oh, that’s right,” Metatron continues mockingly, receiving an annoyed, though still patient, look from Cas. “To save Dean Winchester.” He looks at Cas triumphantly, confident that he has broken Castiel’s stone defenses. And to an extent he has, for at the mention of Dean’s name, Cas’ stomach lurches and his heart radiates a longing for the man that he has spent so long to protect. Once he is finished dealing with Metatron, he can finally go to him and rejoice with him of their victory. That this war they have been unwillingly fighting has finally come to a close. Oh, the look that will be on that gruff face of his—Castiel could hardly wait. Unfortunately enough, he did—he still had Metatron standing in front of him, waiting to be dealt with. Castiel quickly aims to re-mask his face and only responds with a glare.

Metatron steps forward, motioning at Castiel. “But that was your goal, wasn’t it? I mean, you draped yourself in the flag of heaven, but _ultimately_ it was all about saving _one human_ , right?” Cas looks away, refusing to entertain this madman, refusing him the satisfaction of being right. Also the guilt that surfaces with his words, the images that flash in Castiel’s mind of all his fallen brethren in this war that he could not bring himself to care about as long as he could get back to Dean. Of course it is about Dean—it’s always been about Dean. Like he’s been saying—he is no leader. He is just an angel anxious to get rid of this dick so Dean can finally be safe.

“Well guess what,” Metatron pauses, then sucks in a breath and states, emotionless, “He’s dead too.”

Castiel’s eyes widen as his head snaps back in Metatron’s direction. He forgets the composure he is supposed to maintain, and emotions begin flooding his senses. The world drops from beneath his feet, the air disappears from his lungs. A strange sensation begins seemingly behind his eyes and then suddenly they feel wet. Cas’ lips part, ready to yell at Metatron that he is lying, that he now needs to finally shut that big mouth of his and get down on his pudgy knees, though nothing comes out. His voice hitches in his throat and he is unable to utter even a syllable. A small voice in the back of his mind tries to break through the haze and understand that Metatron is telling the truth, but Castiel won’t allow it.

“And you’re sitting in my chair,” Metatron growls, forcing Castiel back into the present, his head still reeling. Suddenly cuffs appear and wrap themselves around his wrists, attaching him to the chair. Instinctively, Cas just makes to use his power to unbind himself, but these cuffs are special. They seem to be similar to the demonic handcuffs the Winchesters had been using on Crowley to hinder his powers while he was in their captivity, though these are made for angels. Castiel looks at them in disgust, but he cannot bring himself to move to fight their restraint. He cannot bring himself to move at all, actually. Cas only looks at Metatron incredulously and states, “You will never get away with this.”

“Get away with what?” Metatron advances on Castiel, each step he takes closer making Castiel flinch. “You told a silly story to a group of less-than-nothing believers! I’ll clean up your mess in an _hour_!”

“You give our brothers and sisters far too little credit,” Castiel immediately responds, somehow calmly, his voice refusing to break despite Metatron’s recent revelation. He sucks in a breath and continues, “They will soon learn that you are playing them.”

Naturally, Metatron laughs at Castiel’s remark. “And then?!” His face quickly drops from amusement to intense anger, shouting, “ _They will do nothing!_ Because they are frightened little sheep following my _crook_ wherever _it_ leads.” Castiel still remains silent, his heart pounding in his head, his big eyes refusing to look away no matter how much he wants to erase Metatron’s disgusting face from his sight. “And where _I’m_ taking them—back to our _rightful_ place atop this mountain of human _shame_ and _excrement_ —when that happens, trust me! They’re not going to care how they got there!”

Metatron finishes closing the distance between them, turning Castiel in his chair so that they were face to face. Castiel flinches away from him, but his bindings prohibit him from going very far. “You know why you could never quite pull it together, Castiel? Why you’re sitting here with your grace _slowly_ burning away? And your reputation _long_ extinguished? No curiosity.” Metatron shakes his head in disapproval. “You didn’t read enough.” He slides out his Angel’s Blade and holds it in front of Castiel threateningly. “You never knew how to tell a good story.” Metatron’s hands position themselves readily around the hilt of the blade.

Castiel, his eyes swimming in his sadness, leans forward and snaps, “But you did.” Metatron looks at Castiel questioningly, but is soon silently answered as Cas whips around in his chair to reveal that Metatron’s PA speaker had been _on_ this entire conversation, his traitorous words being projected all over Angel Radio for everyone to hear. He had been made, he was done. Metatron’s jaw dropped inhumanly low, his expression priceless. It didn’t matter what he did now; everyone finally knows who Metatron _really_ is. Even if he decided to kill Castiel…

Is that what he wanted now? Was Castiel now willing to die? What did he have to live for, if Dean was dead? Regardless of what his “followers” may think, he really is unimportant. No one needs him. His brothers and sisters _will_ do fine without him. Sam is head-strong and smart, he doesn’t need protecting either. All that mattered— _who_ only mattered, was Dean.

And Dean is gone.

And Castiel is dead.

A line of angels burst into the office where Castiel and Metatron are with mutters of “Take him”, “Bring him here”, “Oh my god”, “Go help Castiel”. It takes three angels to restrain Metatron, all three finalising the capture by pulling out their blades and pressing them against the back of Metatron’s neck. A separate angel frees Castiel of his restraints and he stands up, forcing his back straight and his authority to air off him. Metatron takes one look at the blades, then glares back at Castiel, who draws his own blade and pushes it against Metatron’s throat. The indecision that crosses Cas’ angered face is apparent, the angels anxiously unsure about what event will come. Cas brings his arm back, winding it up, and goes to plunge the blade into Metatron’s heart, but halts it at the last centimetre. Held-in breaths are released and Metatron lets out a sigh of relief. Castiel retracts his Angel’s Blade, then without a moment’s hesitation drives his fist into Metatron’s jaw, knocking him unconscious. The angels let go of the now-limp body, and he falls to the ground with a final _thump_. The only noise in the room now is Castiel’s rapid breaths and the sound of his knuckles clenching and unclenching.

“Contain him,” Castiel commands in a rasp voice, then he pushes past the dumbstruck angels and trudges out of the office, barely making it down the hallway and into the alcove before he completely loses himself. He sucks in a lungful of air as if he has been holding his breath for several minutes, then he breathes out, then back in sharply. Over and over again, he can’t stop. The dam finally breaks behind his eyes and his face is soon drenched in the foreign feeling of tears. He can’t hold it in any longer and his hyperventilations turn into a guttural grunt and then the grunts into a yell. Over and over and over again he yells and yells as the tears incessantly fall from his sore eyes. He yells until his yells are raspy and his voice can’t hold volume. And then he yells some more. He doesn’t understand—why is this happening? What has he done to deserve this?

No.

What has _Dean_ done to deserve this? Why? Why is he dead? Why is he dead and not Castiel? Why had Metatron killed Dean and not Castiel? And why, by all the gods, had Castiel spared this monster’s life? He should die. Painfully. Metatron does not deserve to live. And Castiel wants nothing more than to drive his blade through his chest where a heart should be and watch the light go out in his eyes. Then he will laugh at the lifeless body Metatron once inhabited.

And maybe then he will die himself.

Castiel doesn’t know when, but sometime ago he had stopped yelling. His face is starting to feel dry and sticky now that his eyes were not leaking anymore. He can feel his heart pounding in his ears and a painful throbbing in his head. He takes a shaky, calming breath, sniffling and rubbing his nose, soothing his temples. _What had just happened?_ Castiel had no idea it was in the realm of possibility to feel such emotion. It should not be possible. There should be no allowance to such emotion.

Dean…

 _Castiel? Castiel. We have Metatron, but he is now conscious. We are taking him to the prison,_ an angel’s voice reverberates through Cas’ mind on Angel Radio. He doesn’t have the energy to respond, but he cleans himself up and flits to the entrance of the prison, where he sees Hannah pushing Metatron down the hallway. For some reason, she is the only angel with him. Castiel suddenly felt anger again. What if he had escaped? He could have killed her!

But that is not the real question.

Why has Metatron not escaped? He has the perfect opportunity to. This worries Castiel immensely, Metatron obviously having a plan hidden deep up his sleeve. Castiel walks up behind the angel and her prisoner and grabs Metatron by the back of his shirt, holding him back while the prison door is opened, then shoves his sorry ass inside the cell unkindly. Metatron stumbles into the cell over to the bench on the far side, angrily readjusting his disheveled clothing.

Castiel, ironically, cannot bear to look away from him. “You’re doing the right thing,” Hannah states in a comforting voice., “letting him live.” Castiel finally pulls his gaze away from the monster in the cell and into the eyes of the devoted angel wanting nothing more than to console and rejoice with her fearless leader. Castiel will never understand why that is. He will never be a leader. He won’t even be an angel much longer… “…it’s what a good leader would do,” Hannah finishes.

“I am no leader, Hannah!” Cas replies, not missing a beat, his nostrils flaring. “I never was.” He sighs and says honestly, “I just wanna be an angel.” Castiel looks away from Hannah and back at Metatron, who is eyeing the walls of his cell with disgusting hatred that Castiel can’t bring himself to feel pity for.

“And your grace?” she asks somberly, breaking the silence. “What will you do about that? You will die if you don’t replenish it.” Castiel looks back at Hannah but can’t bring himself to answer, because the answer he will give will hurt her. The silence grows and mutates between the three of them until it’s crushing Cas like an anvil. He can’t bring himself to care about ‘professionalism’ or ‘composure’ any longer and simply disappears, flitting away from the prison, not caring where his wings take him. _Anywhere but heaven, anywhere but the darkness in my mind and the spear in my heart that means Dean is dead._

_Dean is not dead._

Dean is dead.

And Castiel didn’t save him.

Castiel  _couldn't_ save him.

Dean Winchester is no more.

And neither is Castiel.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel finally finds Dean, and they have a very emotional, violent confrontation. Castiel devastatingly sees the events that led to Dean's reawakening.

Minutes blurred into hours.

Hours blurred into days.

Castiel couldn’t distinguish between the two anymore.

His wings had carried him directly to the ocean when he left heaven. He stayed there for a countless amount of time, watching the waves lap at the rocks under the jagged cliff he stood on. He closed his eyes and let the wind and the sound of the waves carry him from this world, willing the world to disappear along with the darkness he was swimming in. Castiel began thinking about what it would feel like to fall from the cliff, how his body would feel hitting all those rocks and then be consumed by the waves. He found himself wishing he was human again—if he jumped the world would go black. If he jumped now it would only go blue and the world would still be there when he emerged.

Castiel sighs. Is this what his life has come to? Wishing, praying for death, unable to think of anything—any _one_  other than…

The oceanic scene became too much for Castiel then, the tide eroding the wall around his mind he had been building to try and block out at least some of the pain. He let his wings take over again and he disappeared, this time appearing outside the front of the bunker. Cas’ eyes began to swim again and the pang that goes off in his chest sends him stumbling backwards. He does not even try to catch himself, and he falls onto ground roughly, his eyes unable to break contact with the door. There is no doubt that Sam will be in there. Maybe he should go in and talk to him? What else has he to do?

Castiel staggers to his feet, then takes a deep breath and flits into the main room of the bunker. His mind wandering, he is unable to focus on his landing and he crashes down through the table, splitting it in two. Cas moans loudly as his body and wings begin to throb painfully.

“Cas?!” Sam’s head appears over Castiel, looking more worried than surprised. His face is red and puffy and he reeks of alcohol. Looking at him more closely, Castiel notices the little things, like his disheveled hair, the bags under his eyes, the dirt riding his clothes. He is a walking mess that probably hasn’t slept for days.

Castiel closes his eyes and forces a few seconds of concentration to flit from the wreckage of the table to behind a now-confused Sam as he scans around the room looking for Cas now that he’s disappeared. Sam whips around when he hears Castiel breathing heavily and reaches out to steady him as he teeters on his feet, nearly incapable of supporting himself. “Are you alright, Castiel? You look like hell,” Sam remarks.

“You’re one to talk, Sam,” Cas grunts, shaking off Sam’s hand. He gestures to what used to be the table. “I’m, uh, sorry about the mess; I will fix it.”

Sam nods. “Cas…what are you doing here?” Castiel suddenly doesn’t know what words to form and can only maintain their eye contact as he puts all his energy into keeping himself upright. “If you’re here for…Dean…Cas, he’s not here.”

Silence. After several uncomfortable moments, Cas finally brings himself to ask, “Where did you bury him?”

Sam’s facial expression goes from one of inquiry to one of frustration and sadness, with a hint of anger. “I didn’t.”

Castiel angrily trudges in front of him, disregarding his personal space. “What do you mean you  _didn’t_ ,” he growls.

“I mean that I didn’t bury him because there was no body to bury.” Sam throws his hands up in defense and stumbles backwards as Cas advances on him.

“Where the hell is his body, Sam?!” Castiel yells, finally snapping.

“I don’t know!” Sam yells back. “I don’t know.” Castiel grabs Sam by the lapels of his shirt and slams him up against the wall. “Castiel stop, I’m—He’s gone, alright? And I don’t know where to.”

“What are you saying,” Castiel inquires, though refusing to place Sam back on his feet.

Sam sighs heavily and replies frustratingly, “I’m saying that I brought Dean’s body back to the bunker and I put him in his bed and I came up here for like twenty minutes and then he was gone. I went back down to him and his body was gone.” Sam gasps in surprise as Castiel disappears and he suddenly drops back to the ground.

It was a longshot, he knows, but just what  _if_  Dean was alive? There  _has_  to be that possibility—what else could explain his body being gone? If Dean’s body disappeared, then that must mean that he is up and walking around. He’s not dead.  _I knew it. I knew he wasn’t dead._  Castiel appears in the garage, and to his satisfaction, sees that the impala is in fact missing. Without missing a beat Cas flits from the garage and is easily able to locate the impala and re-appears next to it. He’s landed somewhere in the western United States.  _Dean’s_  somewhere in the western United States.

The impala has been parked in an alley, with no one in sight. Castiel tries to locate Dean, but to no avail. He is unable to sense him anywhere. Castiel sits himself on the hood of the car and drops his head into his hands. Was he just kidding himself here? Is he just hopelessly chasing a lead that might not even exist? Is he  _that_  desperate to convince himself that Dean is not dead, that Metatron lied?

Yes.

Yes he is.

Castiel will do whatever it takes to get Dean back again, even if it means breaking into hell again, even if it means his own life. He will find Dean, dead or alive, and bring him back.

Cas must have been sitting in that position on the impala’s hood for at least a couple of hours before he finally moved, though only to readjust his eyes and glance around the alleyway for any sign of life. “Damn it, Dean…” Castiel mutters, hopping off the hood. He looks around and reaches out with his mind, searching, one last time. Not unsurprisingly, he feels nothing. Again. Cas readies himself and is about to flit from that god-forsaken alley when he hears him.

“Goddammit, man, get off my fucking car! I swear to hell, if one more fucking hobo touches my car again—there’s going to be some serious hell to pay,” Dean growls the last bit in Castiel’s ear, suddenly appearing in front of the angel and holding the First Blade against his throat. Cas is unable to respond; all he can do is stare, wide-eyed, at the dead man who was breaking his heart only moments earlier.  _Alive._   _Dean is alive and talking and is right in front of me…_  Though Dean does not seem to make the connection. He is glaring at and threatening Castiel without so much of a hint recognition. Maybe it’s too dark for Dean to see him?

Castiel licks his lips, trying to salivate his dry mouth so his voice may work again. “Hello, Dean,” are the three syllables he ends up choosing, tilting his mouth just-so and trying to relay the message with his eyes as well, taking in Dean as if he’s never seen him before. Still marveling at the fact that  _Dean is alive._

_Dean Winchester is alive._

Dean huffs and presses the blade more firmly against Cas’ throat, pushing him harder against the car. Castiel grunts uncomfortably, but does not fight against Dean’s hold. “Who are you and how do you know my name.” His voice is much harder than the last time Castiel heard it, lower. Scarier. Angrier. Something feels off about him, but Cas can’t place what it is. He scrunches his brows in deliberation, deciding how to respond. Instead of responding, however, Cas only brings his two fingers  up and taps them on Dean’s forehead, transporting them both to a nearby vacant hotel room. This way there is now light radiating around them, and there is utter privacy.

Dean staggers and jerks his head around in confusion, then finally lands his eyes on Castiel. Though he does not smile or seem joyful like Castiel thought (or hoped) he would. No, Dean only deepens his glare and tightens his grip on the First Blade. Not seconds later, however, do Dean’s eyes suddenly widen in surprise, and he takes a step back in shock, the anger in his face replaced by one of disgust. Castiel cocks his head to the side questioningly, not understanding Dean’s adverse reactions to this situation. “Dean?” he asks, uncertain.

Faster than Castiel thought possible Dean’s anger consumes his face once more, and he snaps, “What the hell are you doing here, Castiel?” Cas, for some reason, flinches when Dean uses his full name unsympathetically. Dean irately jabs his blade in the direction of the door and adds, “Get out. Just get out, Castiel. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will.”

“Dean—” he tries to protest.

“Just get out! Castiel,” Dean’s heart rate increases and the hand still pointing at the door begins to shake unsteadily. His eyes seem adamant on not looking at Cas, his effort to keep them trained on Cas apparent.

Castiel straightens himself and tries to look Dean in the eye. Oddly enough, Dean’s face appears somewhat blurry, as if he were looking through somebody else’s glasses. He couldn’t focus on Dean, but he frustratingly continues to try as he replies, “No, Dean. I will not leave. I just found you—I will not lose you again.” Dean doesn’t say anything, only heaves out several breaths seemingly painfully.  Then, before Cas has any time to react, Dean speeds across the room and has Castiel pinned against the opposing wall, the First Blade again jammed against his throat again.  _Why is he doing this? What happened—what did Metatron do to him to make him like this?_  Castiel thinks frantically, at loss to why Dean would be treating him, of all people, like this.

“I said: Get. Out.”

This time Castiel struggles against Dean’s grip, which only gets harder and refuses to let up, and he eventually ends up disappearing and reappearing several feet behind Dean, who doesn’t miss a beat in whipping around and taking a swing at Cas with his blade. Castiel jumps backwards, the blade nearly missing his midsection. He looks at the air where the blade was only moments before with disbelief and confusion. He’s forced to snap out of it and to only act, not think, as Dean persistently advances on him with the Blade again, Castiel repeatedly having to dodge it. His swipes only get faster, more violent, until eventually Cas drops his Angel’s Blade, gripping it on both ends with either of his hands and halts Dean’s blow in the air. They push themselves back against a wall, Cas on the opposing side. Dean’s lip twitches in concentrated anger, his eyes narrowing as he tries to overpower Castiel. Cas notices the strain and fatigue that begins to take over Dean’s muscles and takes his chance. He abruptly thrusts his blade upwards, disconnecting the two weapons and sending Dean staggering back. Cas guiltily drives his elbow into Dean’s jaw and switches their roles, so Dean is hard-pressed against the wall and Castiel is the one in front, pressing his Angel’s Blade firmly up against Dean’s throat.

Then the most horrible thing happens.

Castiel gasps in horror and his feet uncontrollably topple over each other backwards until he runs into the night stand. The lamp crashes and shatters on the floor. Dean straightens himself back up. Time stops. All Castiel can hear is his breathing and his heartbeat, which he swears is no longer in his chest but all around him, in every part, in every atom of his being. His Angel’s Blade clanks as it hits the floor. His eyes throb and that foreign feeling of wetness and fear begin to take them over again.

And Dean only smiles, his emerald green eyes melting back in, as if they were never gone.

As his smile increases, his face becomes clearer to Castiel. It is no longer blurred and strained to look at, but defined and horrific. Castiel now understands why, up until this point, he was unable to  _really_  look at him.

Castiel’s heart was protecting him.

He was protecting himself so his heart wouldn’t shatter into a million pieces at a thousand miles an hour when he looked at Dean and saw his true face. But it failed, and Castiel saw. And his heart shattered into a million pieces at a thousand miles an hour. He blinked, over and over again, hoping that Dean’s face would revert back to how it should be, but it doesn’t. It doesn’t change back. It doesn’t change back it doesn’t change—

“No,” his raspy voice shakes as it leaves his body, feeling like he was forcing a fifteen-pound-weight out of his mouth and not words. Dean probably didn’t even hear that one, small uttered syllable.

Or should he even call him Dean? That is not Dean. The man standing five feet in front of Castiel is not Dean.

That  _demon_  standing five feet in front of Castiel is not Dean.

Castiel’s levee breaks and his face unwillingly becomes drenched in a matter of seconds, though his eyes remain unblinking, glued to the horror Dean Winchester’s face has become. Metatron was right. Dean Winchester  _is_  dead. And all that is left of the Dean that Castiel knew…the Dean that Castiel  _loved_ …it’s not even Dean anymore. It’s black and twisted and so full of hate and anger that one might think his soul had been touched by Lucifer himself.

And Castiel couldn’t bear it.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” Dean asks maliciously, flashing his eyes black again. Castiel shudders. “A little gift from the First Blade here,” he adds, waving the blade in front of him for show.

Castiel heaves in a few deep breaths before pushing out, “Dean…what the hell…happened to you?” Dean says nothing and only stands there, unmoving, as if waiting for Cas to do or say something. _If he won’t tell me, which I’m sure he won’t…I will have to see it for myself,_ he thinks, slowly pushing himself away from the nightstand. With skeptical hesitation he approaches Dean, almost fearful that he will be attacked again. To Castiel’s relief and surprise, Dean makes no move against him, he doesn’t even flinch as Cas comes to stand close to him, maybe too close for comfort. Still slowly, he raises his two fingers and places them on Dean’s forehead, pulling his memories forward. They both cry out in pain as their minds meld and Dean’s thoughts and memories become Castiel’s. What Castiel sees in Dean’s mind twists his gut and shatters his heart all over again. He will never forget the scene that he pulls forward and unfolds before him:

_“…And I can save them,” Metatron states confidently, standing only a few feet away from Dean._

_The anger that begins to bubble up inside of Dean is nearly overwhelming. It grows and mutates with each word that Metatron utters, making him tremble in disgust and anticipation, Dean anxious to drive his blade through the bastard. He glares back at Metatron and growls sarcastically, “Sure you can. So long as your mug is in every bible and ‘What Would Metatron Do’s' on every bumper.”_

_Metatron looks around, mocking offense. “And?” he asks innocently. “What are you, blaming me for giving them what they want? Giving them a brand they can believe in?”_

_“I’m blaming you for Kevin!” Dean roars. “I’m blaming you…for taking Cas’ grace.” He pulls out the leather wrap housing the First Blade. Metatron stares at it incredulously. Dean unwraps it slowly as he continues, “Hell, I’m blaming you for the Cubs not winning the World Series for the last hundred freaking years.” He discards the leather wrapping onto the ground and grips the blade readily, his blood beginning to pump with adrenaline as soon as his fingers physically touch it. Dean holds back the urge to gut Metatron for one final line, his voice coming out strained, “Whatever it is—I’m blaming you.”_

_The look of shock Metatron was wearing only moments before dissipates into one of controlled boredom. “The First Blade,” he remarks somberly, “a nasty piece of work, isn’t she?” Dean, still holding his ready stance, eerily smiles and gives a slight nod. “Okay, let’s say you win, Dean. And I die. What’s the world left with, then? Hm? A herd of panty-waisted angels and_ you _? Half out of your mind with…Lord knows what pumping through those veins?”_

_Dean, struggling to maintain his composure and his now-tremoring hand, cuts in, “You see, the only thing you said that went into my ear—” he gestures to his ear with the blade, closing the distance between them, “—was that you die.”_

_Metatron, again in a mocking manner, says, “Oh. Fine. We’ll fight.” He sighs. “I don’t know what you expect is gonna come of all this. Unless,” Metatron hesitates, “that’s why you’re stalling. Because you know: Nothing’s going to come of this. Unless your pals succeed upstairs.” Dean halts in his steps, refusing Metatron the satisfaction of wearing any emotion on his face. “Well, here’s the news flash:_ Humpty _and_ Dumpty _are starring in their very own version of_ ‘Locked-up Abroad Heaven’ _right now.”_

 _Dean looks away, trying again to maintain a composure of seriousness, even though his heart and his mind were racing at the mention of Cas and Sam possibly in danger. Or was Metatron only saying that to mess with his head? To make him emotional? Metatron knows that they are Dean’s weakness, that he can very well use their well-being against him. Dean takes a deep breath, checking himself and pushing that aside. Cas and Sam will be fine, and their_ lives _will be fine as soon as he drives the First Blade through Metatron’s heart…or lack thereof. He feigns walking away, but just as quickly spins around and takes a hard swing at Metatron, who reaches up to block it. He’s too weak and Dean easily overpowers him, sending him stumbling backwards. Metatron grunts in pain, checking for blood on that pudge face of his. Dean looks at him and laughs internally at how pathetic this “high and mighty” angel is._ This is going to be too easy _, he thinks._

_“Ugh, that big blade—that juicy, tribal tat—sure gave you some super juice!” Metatron loudly hollers sarcastically and laughs. Holding out his arms and gesturing to himself, he calls, “Whoo! Okay!”_

_Dean yells and dashes forward again, swinging the blade at Metatron, who’s ready this time. Dean, unaware of what the hell just happened, is suddenly flying through the air and crashes harshly into the opposing wall, falling to the ground painfully. Grunting, Dean pushes himself up and glares at Metatron, refusing to give up and let this dick overpower him. He moves to advance on him again, but Metatron merely flicks his wrist and Dean goes flying back into the wall. Metatron takes his sweet time walking over to Dean, shaking his head shamefully. Wordlessly, he kicks the First Blade across the room, Dean hopelessly reaching out to it. Metatron kicks him in the gut, sending Dean rolling sideways, then steps on his outstretched hand, crushing it. Dean cries out in pain, fruitlessly attempting to pry Metatron’s shoe off him._

_“So,” Metatron’s voice fills the room, “you took Abaddon’s scalp, and you figured you’d take on little ol’, nebbish-y me. What could go wrong?” he raises an eyebrow sarcastically, and Dean continues to try and free his hand. “I mean, you’re powered by the bone of a jack-ass and it is just_ awesome _, right?” Dean gives up trying to free himself and glares up at Metatron, on the verge of defeat. “Here’s a tip: Next time, try and be powered by the Word of God!” He kicks Dean over again into the wall, then pulls him up by the lapels of his jacket and punches him over and over again,  holding him in place so his head repeatedly hits the concrete wall behind him. Blood begins to coat both his face and Metatron’s fist, the all-to familiar metallic taste overtaking his senses. His head begins to swim in a painful haze and he becomes disoriented, unable to fight Metatron back. Dean becomes limp and Metatron finally lets him slump to the ground. Metatron takes Dean’s bleeding face into his hands gingerly and looks at him with something close to pity. Dean can only look pleadingly at him, silently begging for release. Metatron winds his arm and takes one final punch at Dean, and he slumps over in a heap, barely moving, his eyes shut of their own accord. Metatron steps back to marvel at the sight, that Dean Winchester has been painted and defeated by_ his _handiwork._

_Dean pries his eyes open and locates the First Blade across the room, opening his fingers to it, calling to it, willing the blade to come to him. He did it before with Abaddon, he can do it again. He will end this son of a bitch. Metatron will die tonight. And then to his satisfaction, the blade effortlessly flies into his hand and he lifts it up, ready to strike at Metatron, but is already too late._

_Dean’s eyes bulge and he inhales sharply as Metatron drives his Angel’s Blade through his chest, the pain so immense that he is unable to scream, only stare in disbelief at the grinning angel._ No…no, this can’t happen…it can’t end like this, _Dean’s mind screams,_ I need to kill him, I need to stop this…I need to… _Dean looks over and sees Sam’s distraught face, tears welling in his eyes, which then flutter shut as he falls over, limp and unmoving._

Castiel is about to tear away when, unexpectedly, Dean shoves a different scene into his reeling head, one which will haunt him until he dies:

 _Sam gently lays Dean’s body on his bed, the only bed he’s ever been able to call his own, in the only room he’s ever loved and called home. He looks him over for only a few seconds before it becomes too much, and then without a second glance leaves the room, shutting the door softly behind him. A few moments later, after the coast is clear, Crowley appears in the doorway, looking at him with a look of sadness, though if you looked closer, you would see the pleasure and anticipation in his gaze. He slowly enters the room and sits himself in a chair to the left of the bed where Dean’s body lay. “You’re brother,” he begins, oddly enough, comfortingly, “bless his soul…is summoning me as I speak. Make a deal, bring you back…it’s exactly what I was talking about, isn’t it? It’s all become so…expected.” He sighs, almost guiltily, then continues, “You have to believe me. When I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I didn’t know this was going to happen.” Crowley shakes his head. “Not really. I mean, I might not’ve told you the_ entire _truth…but I never lied._ I never lied, Dean,” _he clarifies, his voice firmer, willing him to understand. “That’s important. It’s fundamental._

 _“But. There is one story about Cain that I might’ve…forgotten to tell you. Apparently, he, too, was willing to accept death rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the Blade. He died. Except, as rumour has it, the Mark never quite let go.” Crowley then pulls the First Blade from his suit, eyeing it cautiously as he carries on, “You have to understand why I never spoke of this. Why a heart would flutter at the mere speculation…it wasn’t until you summoned me,” he says, standing up and walking over to stand beside the bed, “…no. It wasn’t_ truly _‘til he left the cheeseburger uneaten,” he places the blade in Dean’s opened right hand, curling his fingers around the hilt, then moving his hand onto his chest, the blade resting gently on top of Dean’s torso, “that I began to let myself believe maybe miracles do come true._

 _“Listen to me, Dean Winchester: what you’re feeling right now…it’s not death. It’s_ life _. A new kind of life. Open your eyes, Dean,” he says firmly. “_ See _what I see._ Feel _what I feel. Let’s go take a howl at that moon.” Silence consumes the room then, and time seems to stand still. It could’ve been a few seconds, it could’ve been an hour, but then, to Crowley’s satisfaction, to Dean’s nightmare, to Castiel’s horror, Dean’s eyes open to darkness. His green eyes have gone, along with his pure soul, and black takes over._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean disappears again and Castiel begins to feel the effects of his fading grace.
> 
> DESTIEL BECOMES CANNON.

When Castiel forcefully ends the mind-meld, Dean is thrown backwards into the wall, and Castiel drops to his hands and knees, panting, unable to move. Unable to think.

Dean…

What was he thinking, accepting that damned Mark? Why was this particular method to Abaddon’s demise so appealing to him that he couldn’t—that he  _didn’t_  want to consult Castiel? What was he even thinking? Did he even think how this would affect Castiel? How it would affect  _himself_?

Of course not, because Dean is unselfish.

No matter how that man portrays himself, no matter how many walls he builds to hide behind, he never ever thinks about himself. Always about others, always to do the seemingly correct thing in order to save the majority involved. Dean, regardless of what he has told himself his entire life, is a hero.

Dean  _was_  a hero.

The small side of Castiel that still persists on loving the bastard, however, is unwilling to give up.  _But he still is a hero…somewhere in there. I know my Dean is somewhere in there—he has to be. I will find him and bring him forward. I_ will _cure his soul somehow._

“Dean,” Castiel breathes out, finally looking up. But he is speaking to dusty air; Dean has disappeared.

And Castiel is alone.

“Damn it, Dean!” he cries out to the empty air. Hurriedly, he flits to the alleyway where he first located the impala, but naturally it is gone, Dean presumably having taken it. Castiel reaches out and frantically senses for it, but Dean seems to have learned his lesson and warded it, Castiel unable to locate anything relating to him. He angrily runs his hands through his dark hair, his breathing coming in short rasps again.  _I can’t lose him, not again_ , he repeats, to himself. Castiel is not used to feeling so many intense emotions and is at loss at how to relieve himself. His body begins to shake uncontrollably and his heart continues to pound in his head.  _I have to find Dean, I have to find Dean, I have to find…_

Castiel barely has enough time to drop his Angel’s Blade and react to the other blade attempting to spear him from behind. It is an angel he doesn’t recognize, but who doesn’t seem like he’s here to harm Castiel. He would not have made himself so obvious, or hesitated in stabbing Cas. He needs intel. Or he’s just a scared, lower-level angel following fearsome orders.

Castiel, still somewhat distracted, manages to allow the angel to relieve him of his blade and gets pinned against the brick wall, both blades crisscrossed at the base of his neck. He slowly raises his eyes to his attacker, whose eyes are narrowed and teeth bared, similar to an animal in an attack state. “Where’s the demon!” the angel demands.

Castiel hesitates. “…I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he growls back, forcing his face into an expression of confidence.

The angel’s expression only gets angrier, thrusting his face closer to Castiel’s. “Where’s the demon!” he repeats.

“Who are you working for,” Castiel asks instead.

The angel punches his face into the wall, his breathing hot on Castiel’s face. “We know you have been in relations with Cain’s successor. Where is he?”

“Who is ‘we’?” Castiel manages before his face is pounded against the wall again.

“Tell us where the demon is and we will spare your pathetic life!”  _He must be one of Metatron’s angels._  But Metatron is still up in prison…where are these orders coming from?

“You are never going to find him,” Cas spits a mouthful of blood at his assailant’s face. “He doesn’t want to be found, and even if you did find him, you’d regret it in an instant.” The angel grips Castiel by the lapels of his overcoat and slams his upper body against the wall before letting him drop in a heap at his feet. He squats to his knees and grabs a fistful of Cas’ hair, forcing him to make eye contact. Castiel laughs spitefully. “I will never tell you where he is.” Hot rage begins to radiate off the angel like a jet stream, the arm bearing his Angel’s Blade winding back, preparing to finish Castiel off. But what he doesn’t know is that Cas hasn’t been the one with the disadvantage this whole time—it was him. He never even realises it, either, even as Cas’ blade plunges into his heart, white light filling the alleyway as he explodes, his vessel’s lifeless body draping itself over Castiel. Cas annoyingly rolls the body off his person and practically tears his overcoat off, the remnants of the angel’s wings seared into it, making him gag. He discards it into a nearby dumpster, collects his Angel’s Blade and flits back to the vacant hotel room.

Before he can change his mind, he gathers the necessary components and creates a summoning ritual on the round bedside table, not bothering to create a devil’s trap anywhere.  _He wouldn’t dare mess with me right now; he’s not stupid. He knows I could end his pathetic existence in a heartbeat._  With that final thought Castiel strikes a match and drops it into the bowl, though when the smoke dissipates, Crowley is nowhere in sight. “Seriously?” he roughly exclaims. “Isn’t it kind of mandatory that you show up?”

After nearly a half hour, Cas sighs and shakes it off. He does not need to stoop to Crowley’s level again, he will find Dean without him. Somehow. He hopes. But where does he even start? How on earth is he going to locate Dean, especially if he does not want to be found? Castiel closes his eyes, draws in a calming breath, and thinks:  _Where, without fail, can Dean always be found?_

Castiel nearly smacks himself, the answer seems so obvious, and he has been missing it this entire time.

A bar. He will find Dean at a bar. Anywhere there is alcohol and under-clothed women. Cas smiles triumphantly and makes a mental list of all the related establishments he is able to think of. Feeling confident, he flits to the first one on his list.

Or not.

He crashes through the ceiling of the hotel room he was just in and falls straight through the bedside table he cast his ritual on. Castiel gapes and gropes for air, all of it seeming to have left him. He cringes at the sharp splinters of the table jutting into him, as well as the ritual’s bowl and candles. He can’t find it in him to move for several minutes, even then he can hardly. Cas’ breathing is fast and rugged as he pulls himself from the wreckage, having to painfully pull out anything sticking from his clothing or his actual person. His forehead quickly begins collecting beads of sweat, which then proceed to roll down his jaw line. He slowly drags on his feet to the vanity, leaning on it for support as he strips his overcoat, his jacket, his shirt. Cas turns and sees the mess of his back, the already apparent bruising and some small trails of blood coming from sporadic places across it. Castiel scrunches his face in concentration, but is unable to fully heal himself then, and he nearly collapses from the effort.

_“You will die if you don’t replenish it…”_

Hannah’s voice drifts across his mind over and over again, Castiel angrily trying to put her memory on mute. “I’ve still got time,” he grunts, “I can hold out long enough to find Dean and help him. I will…” Castiel trails off as the floor becomes his ceiling and he only knows darkness.

***

“So you’re beginning to burn out, huh?” a gruff voice sounds through Cas’ half-conscious haze. His eyelids feel like lead and it takes maximum effort to keep them open once he’s able to relieve his eyes of them. “Doesn’t look like too much fun. Why don’t you just slit another angel so you stay topside?”

Castiel slowly maneuvers his head towards the source of the voice. “Dean…” he croaks out. Dean’s face grows larger as he moves himself closer to the fallen angel. His face hurts to look at, both physically and emotionally. Cas wrinkles his nose in disgust as Dean’s strong cologne of alcohol wafts over him like a thick blanket to the point where he can’t remember what fresh air tastes like. He clears his throat and moves to find fresh air again, but doesn’t make it very far. “What are you—”

“I found a liquor store, Castiel,” he smirks, and Castiel flinches again as Dean…no,  _not_  Dean, uses his full name.

“And…?” Cas prompts, not understanding his reference right off in his muddled state.

Something rumbles in the demon’s…no,  _Dean’s_ , chest resembling something similar to laughter, though no smile spreads itself across his face. “I drank it.” Dean’s eyes search Castiel’s for some hint of understanding for several minutes, until, finally, Castiel understands and can’t help but break into wide smile, the biggest he has smiled in a very long time.

Cas shoves through his dizziness and pushes himself upright, swinging his legs over the bed he has been placed on. He’s still in the hotel room, though it has been cleaned up so nothing looks like it was ever disturbed. He meets Dean’s eyes once more and tries to speak, but again is left speechless. Yes, Dean’s fairytale green eyes were looking back at him, but they were only a façade, a mask the darkness was wearing deceitfully. “You never answered my question,” Dean says.

Castiel clears his throat again and wets his dry lips. “Because I am no killer…not anymore,” he replies in a raspy voice, “I would not be able to live with myself if I harmed another angel in anything other than self-defense. But even then…”

Dean’s laughter actually becomes vocal this time, though the smile he breaks into is sarcastic and amused in the derogatory sense. “You are still such an immature dumbass,” he says deeply through his laughter.

“Excuse me?” Cas cocks his head and raises an eyebrow, in need of clarification.

“Not willing to do what is necessary to keep you alive, Cas, to keep those wings of yours! What’s one more dead angel to make that happen compared to all the ones you’ve already killed?” Castiel cannot tell whether the emotion of Dean’s face is one of accusation or one of concern. He hopes it’s the latter, but he highly doubts it.

Castiel looks back at Dean and can’t stop himself from saying in a small voice, “You called me ‘Cas’.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Of course I did,” he replies, “that’s your name, isn’t it? Now what about your wings, Castiel,” his voice transitions back into its normal roughness.

“My wings…or lack thereof, are none of your concern, Dean,” Castiel is unable to hide the defeat in his voice. His fading grace, his burning wings, seem entire insignificant compared to getting through to and fixing Dean. Though the sadness and pain that Castiel feels knowing that he will no longer be an angel, he will no longer have his grace or his wings, is almost too much to bear when he thinks about it. It is undoubtedly written on his face, Cas somewhat grateful it most likely masks the even greater pain he feels for Dean.

Dean gets up from the chair next to the bed and trudges over to the fridge to pull out a beer. He walks back over and sits down, popping the top and drinking himself deeper. The silence swallows them both for what seems like an endless amount of time, until Dean, in a voice Cas thought he’d never hear again, says, “Cas…” it is silent for a few minutes more, then he continues, “will I miss my green eyes, like you miss your wings?”

Castiel looks up Dean, incredulous. He sucks in a lungful of air and exhales, hoping his next words will be the right ones. “Dean…this will end. I will fix this. I promise you, I will fix this…I will fix  _you_ ,”  _before my imminent death_ , he adds silently. Dean looks into Castiel with such emotion at that moment that Castiel’s heart lurches hopefully, no doubt being in his mind that the words he just spoke will come true.

But then that all nearly crumbles when Dean’s face loses that vulnerability so quickly, Cas questions whether it actually happened or not. He throws his empty bottle angrily into the trash can and gets up, going to retrieve another beverage from the mini-fridge. Cas gets off the bed and follows him, and is there when Dean turns around, popping the top off his new beer. Castiel watches the indecision flit across his face while his nostrils flare, the fingers gripping the bottle turning white. It shatters on the floor a few short seconds after Dean drops it, grabbing Cas by the throat and pinning him against the wall inhumanly fast. Castiel refrains from gasping aloud when Dean flashes his demonic eyes, keeping them black as he growls, “And who says I want to be  _fixed_ , Castiel.”

“ _You_ ,” Cas replies gutturally, talking through his lack of oxygen. “I know my Dean is somewhere in there, and  _he_  wants to be  _fixed_. And you know it, too,” he adds, his voice drowning in irate emotion, though with which one he can’t decipher.

Dean loosens his grip slightly, but he keeps Castiel pinned in place. “ _Your_  Dean?”

Cas feels the blood rush to face and blossom behind his cheeks. Through his sudden embarrassment and still strained, however, he confirms, “Yes.  _My_  Dean.” Dean releases Castiel then, Cas raping the air to satiate his deprived lungs. He quickly reaches out and grips Dean’s shoulder tightly, saying, “Don’t you dare disappear on me again, Dean. We need to talk about this.”

He whips around to face Cas and yells, “What is there to talk about? We have nothing to talk about here! We are done here, Cas. You can’t fix me—there’s nothing to fix! We are both just better off going our separate ways. Don’t waste your last precious breaths on me, Castiel. Go do something productive with your pathetic wing-less existence."

Cas’ heart re-shatters as Dean’s angry words pour out, and he tries to shrug it off and chalk it up to the demon inside, the anger, Dean just saying things to make him leave. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less, hearing those words. Especially if they are Dean’s words…or at least, Dean’s voice. “I am not going anywhere Dean. Now don’t you,” he says again, firmer. Dean says nothing, only remaining in his fuming stance, his eyes never leaving Castiel’s.

Finally, “Why.”

Castiel takes one step closer towards Dean, them now being only mere centimetres apart. Before he can stop himself, before he can ‘cop out’, Castiel looks Dean straight in his eyes, straight through to his ugly darkness, “Because, ‘ _I love you, Dean Winchester_ ’ are the words I should have said, before I heard the news ‘ _Dean Winchester is dead_ ’.” Castiel watches Dean's eyes widen, his mouth parting just slightly in revelation, speechless and unmoving. His heartbeat quickens to a pace much faster than any human’s, and his body goes rigid.  Castiel’s, however, surprisingly remains unchanging. His only action being watching Dean and what he will do next.

Cas grabs the lapels of Dean’s coat harshly, stopping him from disappearing. “I thought I made myself clear; neither of us is leaving this hotel room until we talk.” Dean glances down at the hand gripping his jacket with one of annoyance, taking a deep breath, his body beginning to tremble slightly. He reaches up and places his hand over Castiel’s. Cas sucks in a deep breath as the image of Dean in the crypt—beaten, bruised and bloody—unfolds in the front of his mind.

_“Cas,” he forced out, choking on his own blood, “I need you, Cas.”_

That was enough for Castiel. That one snippet of memory that Dean just shot into him—nothing can now sway him from the fact that there is hope for Dean Winchester. There is hope for him, and there may be hope for Castiel. And Castiel refused to wait any longer, to look back on this moment and regret not acting on the feeling he’s been fighting, ever since he gripped Dean and raised him from perdition. And there was no inkling of a doubt in his mind that Dean has felt it too.

Castiel kissed him. Hard.

He kissed him with the passion of the hungry, trying to fit years and years of emotion into one simple act, into one simple embrace. Castiel’s head was reeling, his heartbeat deafening, beating everywhere around him and out of sync. When Dean did not reciprocate, his heart began to fall and his lips began to slow, but then not a moment too soon Dean returned Castiel’s greed, slamming him back into the wall, causing it to crack. The kiss was bruising, desperate; and air, life, seemed insignificant. Nothing else mattered. Nothing. No one else mattered but Dean Winchester, and to Dean, nothing else mattered more than Castiel. In that moment, they were one.

Dean breaks away first, his breathing coming in short rasps. “Cas,” he breathes against his lips, “Cas, get out.”

Castiel, his head still reeling from the kiss, still trying to regain his breath, looks up at Dean in confusion.  _Did he not just reciprocate the kiss? Did I do something wrong?_  “No, Dean, I am not leaving. How many times tonight do I have to tell you that?” He plants a softer kiss on the demon’s lips. “What are you so afraid of?”

Dean’s voice shakes unsteadily as he replies, “Because, Castiel, you’re an angel. I’m a demon. There’s got to be like a million laws against that,” he laughs to relieve the tension.

“I won’t be for much longer.” Cas searches for Dean’s lips again.

“Yeah, or alive for that matter,” Dean says gruffly.

Cas grabs a handful of Dean’s hair and pulls his face towards his, causing Dean to flinch. “For once in your miserable life, Dean, can you not speak your mind.” Dean, pained, nods in reluctance. “Good,” Castiel mutters, tracing Dean’s plush lips with his finger, cocking his head to the side. “This is all so…foreign to me,” he remarks, losing himself in Dean’s body, the pleasure he feels from finally being able to claim it nearly overwhelming. Castiel longs to brand Dean as his own again.

He is contemplating where, when Dean replies, “I’m sure you’ll do fine, Cas,” a smile playing at his rough lips. When Castiel only continues to stare at his lips intently, Dean takes a small step back and slides off his jacket, then tugs his shirt off over his head. Cas reaches out and clasps his right shoulder, the shoulder that once bore his handprint. For some reason he frowns at its absence. “Yeah, I kinda wish it had stayed, too,” he says, mirroring Castiel’s thoughts as he gently guides his hand back down and peels away his trench coat. He reaches for Cas’ suit jacket, but Cas holds out a hand to stop him.

“It’s okay, I can do it,” he says, bringing a full smile to Dean’s face, which immediately frowns and twitches from the alien feeling. Cas pulls off his suit jacket, then unbuttons his shirt and sets it on the floor with the other clothes. Hesitantly, he closes the distance between the two of them again. Standing on his toes, he cranes his neck and melts their faces together again, his hands smoothing down Dean’s torso and wrapping around his belt buckle.  _This is the only time where I have been grateful for Metatron giving me the knowledge of modern day culture,_  he thinks as he undo’s the buckle and pulls the belt out of the loops. Though the way his heart is hammering in his chest, he is still so unsure and scared he might mess this up.

Dean swiftly does the same with Cas’ pants, making them join the pile of clothes. Castiel quivers in embarrassment, feeling naked…he  _is_  naked. And Dean can see every inch of this vessel he’s called his own, can touch every inch, can kiss every inch. Cas shivers in anticipation, though shies back against the wall. “C’mon, now, Cas. Gonna make me do all the work?” Dean’s deep, raspy voice breaks through Castiel’s haze. Dean does not give Castiel a chance to respond before planting a heated kiss on his lips, then creating a path of kisses along his jawline, his neck, his torso. Castiel can’t help but gasp once Dean touches his cock, his composure slowly leaving him with each move Dean makes. Cas can’t help but watch Dean as he begins his work, licking a firm stripe down to his head and running his tongue along the bottom of his shaft. A shiver racks its way through Castiel as Dean makes his way to the tip, where he sucks long and hard before working his way back down again. His hands snake their way up Cas’ legs and grab his ass, pulling him more into Dean, his dick hitting the back of his throat as he begins to bob faster, up and down, back and forth. Castiel’s eyes close as he tilts his head back, a new kind of pleasure beginning to radiate through his vessel’s body. Instinctively, he runs his fingers through Dean’s hair and grips his head, keeping him in place. He feels as Dean tries to contain a smile, hollowing out his cheeks and continuing to blow him as the pleasure builds and builds inside Castiel. Noises he has never made before begin to leave his mouth, his peak so close yet so far.

“Good God, Dean!” escapes his lips as Dean takes his balls into his hand, massaging circles into them as he continues to suck, the pleasure feeling nearly unbearable to Castiel. Cas feels Dean twitch, flinching at his father’s name, but he quickly shrugs it off and now seems more determined, fiercer, than ever. And then Castiel feels it rapidly build and he is so close, he’s so close, so close—

“Oh my—Dean! Damn it, my god—” The orgasm that then fills Castiel causes his body to buckle, and had Dean not reached out and looped a supporting arm around him, he would have fallen into an indecipherable heap on the carpet. It is like nothing Castiel has ever felt before—he can find no words to describe the fire surging through him. Unintelligible mutters and incessant repetitions of Dean’s name continue to leave Cas’ mouth as he continues riding through his orgasm. He almost does not feel Dean guide him over to the bed and place him on the edge of it, his head falling to rest in the hollow of Dean’s neck as he kneels in front of him.

“Shit, Cas, you alright?” Dean’s laugh travels through his chest and reverberates through Castiel’s still throbbing body. Castiel manages a nod as he wraps his hand around Dean’s neck and pushes their lips together hungrily, the need to touch him taking over as his pleasure unfortunately begins to die out. He pulls Dean towards himself in a frenzy, frustrated that he is unable to touch and kiss all of Dean at once. “About…time…” Dean mutters in between Cas’ attacks on his lips. Castiel crawls backwards as Dean crawls onto the bed, shifting them higher up the mattress. Somewhere in this move Castiel switched their positions, and the next time he opened his eyes Dean was below him, his eyes masquerading green as they refused to break contact with his angel’s. He opens his mouth to say something, but his breath instead gets hitched in his throat as Castiel reaches between their slick bodies and latches onto his dick and begins to work his way around it, Dean’s body shivering uncontrollably. “Holy fuck, Castiel…” he groans, black beginning to pool into his eyes. Castiel tries to only focus on giving his Dean pleasure and not about the eyes that have now come into view, his face making Cas cringe. His hands and fingers slow, and his jaw clenches almost painfully as he closes his eyes and forces himself to only focus on the task appointed to his hands.

Which then suddenly weren’t encompassed around Dean’s cock, but were being gently pinned against Dean’s chest, his now-green eyes begging contact with Castiel’s wet eyes.  _Why are they wet?_  he thinks as Dean reaches up with one of his hands and wipes a tear escaping from Cas’ eye. “Quit fucking crying, Cas, you’re making my heart hurt,” he mutters raptly.

“You don’t have a heart,” Cas replies gutturally through his now-apparent tears. He places a hand over Dean’s heaving chest where his heart should be, and like he stated, there’s nothing there. There is no heartbeat, no sign of life in his lover’s darkened body. Not even those fake green eyes bear a signal of life. All Castiel sees when he looks at Dean is death and blackness…all he will ever see.  _How am I supposed to fix you?!_  Castiel screams internally while he tries to soften his eyes as they look into Dean’s.

“If I did… _when_  I did,” Dean says slowly, “it was always hurting for you. This evil that has consumed me…you said you could fix it—”

“Might. Dean, I have no idea how to go about fixing your soul. But that sure as hell is not going to keep me from trying. But Dean,” he breathes out, “you have to know that we may have, unfortunately, finally reached the point of no return.”

Dean angrily pulls Cas towards him and whispers against his lips, “Don’t say that, you bastard,” his voice begins to tremble, and Castiel’s heart lurches. “Don’t you say that.” To make an unidentifiable point, Dean holds Castiel’s face forcefully in place as he flashes his eyes black. Cas tries to pull back, but Dean stops him. “Look at me, Cas!” he growls. “Look at my eyes and tell me you are going to let me stay like this!”

Cas whimpers against the pressure of Dean’s hand against his neck and the horror of his face. Of course he wasn’t going to let Dean rot like this—but the question of ‘how not to’ still presses indefinitely on the forefront of his mind. “I am not going to let you remain in this state, Dean. I swear on my life—before I die, I. Will. Fix. You.” He searches for Dean’s lips again, and Dean releases his grip on him, giving Cas silent approval. Their lips meet and move and meld against one another as the room, the world, spins uncontrollably and their bodies entangle themselves together as if they have finally found their missing piece. With each kiss, with each touch, they each hopelessly try to melt away their pressing nightmares and problems, refusing to let anything more come between their love tonight. The love they have each waited countless lifetimes to manifest.

The love that will be the death of them.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel believes he has found a cure for Dean...but at a cost. And after he pays that price, he is visited by one he never would have expected.

Castiel found himself wishing he was human again. Though this time, it was because he longed to close his eyes and let sleep claim him. He wanted to fall asleep and dream wrapped in Dean’s strong arms. Castiel shifts uncomfortably in Dean’s embrace, the darkness touching his naked skin becoming more apparent now that the moment was fading away. He tries to ignore it while he lets his mind run rampant, searching for even an inkling of information that could help him fix Dean. Even the worst case scenarios; Cas is now willing to do  _anything_ , no matter the costs.  _I am already dead. Whatever I decide to do now, it is not going to matter soon._  Castiel thinks harder, incorporating more lethal and regrettable acts into the mix.

_“Why don’t you just slit another angel so you stay topside?”_

Dean’s voice repeats in his mind.  _It would give me more time to fix him…or…_  Castiel shoots up so fast that Dean is rolled over in his wake. “Damn it, Castiel, what the hell?” he asks, rolling back over and propping himself up on an elbow. Cas only glances at Dean before sliding out of the bed and pulling on his clothes. “Cas?” Dean asks again, though this time concern and disappointment laces itself through his voice.

“I think…I have an idea of how to fix you,” he grunts, pulling on his overcoat. “I will be back soon. Dean,” he says, looking at the demon, “remove the warding from your car.” Cas then disappears from the hotel room and flits back to the prison where he last placed Metatron. If he was remembering correctly, there were two other prisoners in this row of cells. He chooses the one furthest from Metatron’s distinguished cell, which he refuses to entertain a glance to. Without hesitation he opens the barred cell door and steps in, jarring the shunned angel on the bed from something resembling sleep. What else were they supposed to do in here, other than to drown in their thoughts?

“Castiel?” the angel asks frightfully, “What—what do you want?” She pushes herself against the corner, shying away from Cas, trying to hide the tremours beginning to rack through her vessel’s body. Castiel wordlessly drops his Angel’s Blade and turns it over in his hand a few times before finalising his grip on the hilt.  _She is in prison. She is doing time for a heinous crime and will never be free…_  Cas’ mind consoles him, trying to justify the cruel thing he is about to do. The angel’s eyes bulge when she sees his blade, a new fear rippling through her being. “No, what are you doing?” she breathes out fearfully, shaking her head incessantly as she presses herself more into the wall. “Look, I’m sorry—I know what I did was wrong but—you’re Castiel! You’re supposed to be the one leading us, protecting us!” her tone becomes angrier, and when Castiel firmly presses his hand against her shoulder, pinning her in place, she spits in his face.

Cas wipes the saliva off his face with his free hand without breaking eye contact with the angel. Her mouth begins moving again, shooting out more begs for him to spare her life, but Cas can’t hear her anymore. He can’t feel her. All he can feel is his blade, then his hand guiding it upwards to her neck, where he drags it across effortlessly. The angel’s mouth falls agape and her eyes lull into the back of her head. Castiel quickly grabs the vial from inside his coat and holds it up against the slit in her neck, capturing the escaping Grace. Once all of it has left her, he releases his hold on the body and it falls into a heap on the ground, lifeless. Castiel looks down at it without emotion. “I am sorry,” he states, turning over the vial in his fingers.

Without a second glance he takes his leave. Cas breathes a sigh of relief when he reaches out his senses and locates the un-warded Impala. He immediately flits to it, then slides down and sits on the ground, panting heavily. He will not be able to transport himself soon, it drains too much of his already fading power.

“Hello, Castiel,” Dean’s confused, gruff voice brings Cas back to reality. He looks up at his demon and manages a half smile.

“Hello, Dean,” he responds, grunting as he uses the car to straighten himself back up again. “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” Dean asks, a hint of seduction in his voice.

Castiel rolls his eyes and trudges over to him, walking them backwards into a wall. Dean smiles as Cas pulls him down for a kiss, saddened desperation lacing his tongue.  _This may be the last time I can do this…_  Castiel thinks somberly. But he breaks the kiss soon after, not wanting to make this any harder on his shattering heart. Before Dean has time to react, Castiel grabs a handful of his hair and forcibly tilts his head backwards, opening his mouth. Cas quickly pulls out the vial and upends it over Dean’s ajar mouth, the Grace in it seeping out and raining down his throat. Dean’s screams begin piercing the air around them, his body beginning to convulse uncontrollably. Castiel’s face scrunches itself in worry, in the pain of this situation, but quickly forces himself to push the emotions aside—he needed to finish. Cas drops his blade and cuts across Dean’s tattoo first, then brings the blade up and cuts a straight gash across his thrashing neck. Dean’s howls are nearly unbearable for Cas’ ears, but he continues to push it away, focusing only on the task at hand. He begins muttering the incantation, and, to his relief, a blackness slowly begins to emerge from the gash. Castiel shakily cuts his hand and firmly places his now-reddening palm against Dean’s mouth. He then opens his own mouth and places his lips over Dean’s neck, sucking and swallowing his blood and the blackness, both of which searing themselves down his throat. His body then too begins to convulse as fire starts consuming all of him, but he never removes his mouth from Dean’s neck or the hand covering his mouth. Just when Cas feels like he cannot take any more, he finally, finally feels Dean’s body give one last jerk before going completely still, slumping to the ground. Castiel soon heavily follows, the world quickly fading from his view as the fire inside burns through every atom of his celestial existence, leaving nothing in its wake. There will be no way for him to know if it worked, if he was able to fully heal Dean, but the hope springing from his heart eases any doubt located in his mind.

Cas does not struggle against the fire. Castiel welcomes his death, and as the light leaves his eyes as they close, a smile etches itself across his fading face as he pictures Dean’s green eyes one final time, listening to him sing:

_Carry on, my wayward son_

_There’ll be peace when you are done_

_Lay your weary head to rest_

_~~Don’t you cry no more.~~ _

* * *

 

_The ultimate sacrifice for the ultimate love…_

Castiel jerks to consciousness, confused and disoriented. He is not occupying Jimmy’s vessel—he is in his true form. Even so, he aches and cannot fully grasp reality. Cas has no idea how he got here—or even where ‘here’ is. He desperately reaches into his mind to remember what happened before now, to gain some insight as to what is happening.

_The ultimate sacrifice for the ultimate love…_

Repeats a voice in Cas’ head, confirming that the first was not a figment of his imagination. _Who are you?_ he asks.

_Castiel…my beloved Castiel. I have been watching over you for centuries untold, even more so in recent years._

Castiel’s brow furrows in confusion. _Who are you?_ he asks a second time.

 _For in recent years,_ the voice still continues, uninterrupted, _you have made countless mistakes. Dire, fatal, immature and unwise mistakes. You aided in freeing Lucifer from his cage in hell. You abandoned the Charges in your care. You fraternised with demons and monsters alike. You violated the sanctuary of Purgatory and the souls inside, trying to become an evil, merciless god. You inadvertently allowed the souls to wreak havoc on the Earth, causing much death and destruction. You, also inadvertently, are also the cause for the great Fall, where all the angels fell and were ripped from their home and sanctuary._

With each accusation the voice rang out Castiel’s heart lurched and broke and ripped itself apart. He never denies all the mistakes he’s made, all the death and heartbreak he has caused, but that does not ever stop him from trying to suppress it. It is almost too much to hear all of his wrongdoings thrown at him like this—Cas feels he may drown.

 _But,_ the voice intercedes Cas’ screaming thoughts, _you have also done much good, given much life to this world. You raised Dean Winchester from perdition. You guided your Charges with such love I have never before seen an angel give. Granted, you did break Heaven’s laws to do so, but always with the right intentions. You saved Sam Winchester from an imminent death after Lucifer claimed his soul. You also raised Sam Winchester from perdition. You secured the tablets, protected the prophets. Fought Naomi and again, repeatedly, saved the Winchesters from certain destruction. You saved Sam Winchester from his angel. You tried to fix Heaven and failed, but your immense efforts to try and make things right again have not gone unnoticed._

Once the voice seems to be finished speaking, Castiel is rendered speechless. How is he to react to such words? How the hell do all those actions matter compared to the previous list? They shouldn’t, and they don’t. He has caused way more destruction than he ever has, or will, fix, and he will always struggle to live within himself. What is this entity playing at? He is about to retaliate, but the voice is not finished.

_And lastly, my poor Castiel, you, yet again, saved Dean Winchester. You sacrificed your own life raising him from the perdition of his own tainted soul. Yes, my beloved Castiel, you succeeded in saving Dean Winchester._

_I…I saved Dean?_ Cas asks quietly, not believing his own words.

 _Yes,_ the voice confirms.

Joy like nothing he has ever felt before spreads throughout Castiel’s being like wildfire—Dean is alive! _Dean Winchester has been saved!_ his mind screams once more.

But his elation soon ends once realisation slams into Cas.

He is dead. Castiel died from the Darkness he consumed, the blood he sucked into his veins as his holiness left him.

Castiel will never see Dean Winchester again.

Castiel will never love Dean Winchester again.

_My son…my beloved son…you will. I have resurrected you in the past, I can resurrect you again._

_F-father?!_ Castiel shouts incredulously. _No…no, no leave me be. I am not deserving of your presence, of your words. Please, send me to where I belong to pay for my crimes against you. I do not—_

 _But are these assumptions yours to make, Castiel? Why would I resurrect you in the past, considering the things you had done, and the things you were yet to carry out? As they say, I work in mysterious ways. And it is not your place to question it._ Castiel shies into himself, even more ashamed. _I will not keep you here, I will not send you to hell, and I will not send you to heaven._

 _Then…where? What do you want of me, Father?_ Cas asks hesitantly.

 _I am renewing your broken, tainted soul and sending you back into your vessel on Earth, where you will continue to play your part in that world. You will watch over and aid the Winchesters and my other children. You will continue what you were doing before your sacrifice._ A pause. _Your love for Dean Winchester has never been denied or gone unnoticed, Castiel, and it will continue to be as such. Go back, and love him like you were always meant to. Watch over him._

Castiel can only silently acknowledge the words spoken to him.

 _Castiel, Angel of Thursday,_ his Father says, though the visage his was talking through begins to shift. In clouds of light and dust a figure emerges and stands before Castiel, a figure he used to know and protect.

 _You…_ You _are God?_ Castiel can’t help but ask, astounded.

“Yes, and I always was. I am proud of you, Castiel. Now go, return to life.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Castiel and Dean both revived and whole again, they get reacquainted into their lives and with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still incomplete, but here is the first part.

Castiel’s eyes fly open, and he jerks upright in the bed he had been laid in. He looks around, confused, and begins feeling himself, unsure that he was all there, unsure whether or not his vessel was intact. Cas brings his shaking hands up in front of his incredulous face and only stares at them for several minutes. “I—I don’t understand…” he murmurs. Images of Dean and a ritual and being burned alive roll themselves behind Castiel’s eyelids, and the realisation that Castiel should not be breathing right now hits him. _What the hell?_

“Cas?!” Castiel whips around in the direction of the voice, his eyes growing wider as they land on none other than Dean Winchester. Cas does not even realise he had fallen off the bed until Dean reaches down and loops an arm around his waist, hoisting him back onto the bed and sitting them next to each other.

Castiel reaches out and cups Dean’s face, making trails around it with his thumb. “Dean…” he whispers, still awed and confused that everything exists. “Dean, what happened?”

Now it is Dean’s turn for his brow to furrow in confusion. “Well, Cas, I was hoping you could tell me that.” He pauses. “Cas, you were dead. Well, from what I could tell, I mean you are possessing that Jimmy dude.”

Castiel looks back up at Dean and honestly replies, “I don’t know. I don’t know how I’m alive…or why, for that matter.”

Dean’s eyes furiously dart back and forth between Cas’ eyes, as if looking for any secrets he may be keeping from him. “Really? You don’t remember anything?” Cas nods again in confirmation. “You think the man upstairs did you another favour?”

Immediately Castiel shakes his head no, sadness washing over him. “God is dead, Dean. We’ve already established this.” He pulls back and looks into Dean’s emerald eyes. Castiel pushes away his physical face and looks into his soul…his _white_ soul. His white, untainted, purified soul. _I did it! I saved Dean, I really saved him._ A wide smile spreads its way across his face and he quickly leans in and places a soft kiss on Dean’s lips.

Dean pulls away, smiling. “Took you long enough to wake up, Cas, you were scaring me for a minute there.”

“How long was I dead?” he asks somberly.

Dean scrunches his face in contemplation. “I don’t know, exactly. Because you were dead in the hotel room, but a couple days ago here in the bunker, you were screaming.” Cas cocks his head to the side in confusion, prodding Dean to continue. “Well, not _Jimmy_ you, but actually you. Like there was glass and windows shattering and our radios and shit were going ballistic.”

“And how do you know this was me?”

“Because for some reason, while Sam was holding in the blood in his ears, I heard you, clear as a bell: _Dean Winchester has been saved._ ” Dean, for the first time in god knows how long, smiles. Long and wide and so full of life the Castiel feels as though he may drop dead from the happiness now radiating through his being.

“You—you…heard _me_ , Dean?” Cas asks quietly, incredulous. Dean only nods in confirmation, then scoots closer to Cas and pulls him closer to him by his neck, entangling his fingers in Cas’ dark hair. Dean presses his face against Castiel’s head, just beside his ear, and inhales sharply. He slowly releases the air and then does it again.

“God, you smell so good, Cas. I could breathe you in forever.” A pause. “I could love you forever.” Cas turns his head so the next time Dean inhales, he is inhaling his lips. He feels Dean shiver as he slides his hand up his torso and entangles it in Dean’s recently grown out hair. “You know,” Dean breathes out, breaking away, “I thought I liked the disease, but this…coming back, being healed—and then some—Cas, I don’t want to fight these feelings anymore. Hell, I _can’t_ fight these feelings anymore. You’re here, I’m here, and I refuse to let this go.”

Castiel holds back a warm smile as he holds his hand up and states, “Dean, no chick-flick moments.” Dean flashes his newfound thousand-watt smile again and nearly pounces on Castiel, firmly re-affiliating their lips and positioning them further on the bed.


End file.
